


23 Paces to Baker Street

by wingedrascal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Blind Character, Completely Consensual, Eventual Smut, M/M, Nanomedicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedrascal/pseuds/wingedrascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Watson returned from Afghanistan blind and broken, but that doesn't stop his need to save. When he overhears a plot to kidnap a child, and the Met refuses to take his claims seriously, he turns to the mysterious "consulting detective" for help.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes just wants to know one thing: in today's world of near-magical nanomedicine, why would a doctor of all people choose to remain blind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The noise was fucking overwhelming.

**Author's Note:**

> Two different ideas got mushed together with this story: The first is that I wanted to retell an old film noir by the same title, which has the same premise ( a blind man overhears a plot, and goes to a detective for help ). The second is that I wanted to play with nanomedicine/nanotech because it's cool. 
> 
> Eventual Johnlock smut, and canon-typical violence. This story is only half-written, but I can promise that I will not abandon it. As such, I can't tell you exactly what sexual or graphic acts you might need to be warned about, but I can absolutely assure you that I won't go anywhere near even a hint of non-con.
> 
> Not-really beta'd, definitely not Brit-picked. I do my best.  
> Update: As of chapter 2, I have a beta and brit-picker. The wonderful brianaphora, thank you love.
> 
> Short chapters, updates every Friday!

The noise was fucking overwhelming.

_Fast, wet gliding_ : traffic. _Scraping, trembling rumbling_ : skateboards. _Tinny, distant chiming_ : pub doors being opened. _Steady patters_ : rain. _Indignant ruffling_ : pigeons. The electric buzz of street lamps and the occasional monotone of a telly leaking through a window. All of it accompanied by the never-ending calamity of people’s voices: _talking, humming, shouting, crying, laughing, whispering, angry, happy, bored_. Their footsteps were just as varied, just as loud. The sound of the air changed with every new variable. It was faster and higher pitched when a cab raced by; longer and echoing down an empty alleyway. It breathed out in a gasp when a nearby door pushed open against a gust of wind.

John Watson ground his teeth together (yet another noise; _loud, insistent, dark_ ) and tried to ignore the barrage of sound as he picked his way through the London streets. The cane in front of him taptaptapped carefully. As invisible as he tried to make himself, he knew he was drawing attention. That was less of a sound and more of a feeling. People’s eyes were on him. Those that could make him out in the dark were mostly shocked; this was probably their first time seeing a blind man, ever. Some were pitying, he could tell. It crawled over his skin like ants. He set his face into a mask of blankness, staring straight ahead. The pub was twelve steps away, now. All he had to do was make it that far, open the door, find Mike.

Easy.

The sound of fast moving feet, boots tromping through puddles came up behind John, just a breath before he was knocked to the side. His cane clattered to the ground, and he yelled a curse out of old habit. The man who had pushed him turned, and said,

“Sorry, mate,” before his voice trailed off. John knew he was looking at the cane, and at the careful way John was edging forward, waiting for his foot to bump the damn thing.

“Don’t suppose you could hand that to me?” He sighed. There was no getting around that, the needing help. Fuck it all.

“Sure thing, giz just a sec,” said the man. There was a bit of Scouse in his accent. John hadn’t heard that peculiar sing-song lilt since a Cheshire man in his unit had taken a permanent transfer, as it were.

“Real sorry.” The man thrust the wet cane into John’s arms unceremoniously, before taking off again.

John blew out a breath and steadied the tip against the ground again. He hadn’t thought of Bill in a long time. It still stung a little, remembering the way he’d looked up at John with so much trust in his captain’s ability to save him. Too bad it hadn’t worked out that way. John could never decide if it was a cruel joke of fate that the look in Bill’s eyes would be one of the last things John himself would ever see.

He shook off the melancholy and continued on towards the pub. Mike was an old friend from Bart’s. They’d been interns together, a lifetime ago. When he’d heard that John was back home, he’d rang the very next day. Always a good guy, Mike. The sort to remember birthdays and the way you took your tea. So when John finally made it to the damned pub, and heard Mike’s friendly greeting, he wondered why he got the sudden feeling that he’d much rather be running through the desert than spending a night in the man’s company.

“What are you having?” Mike asked after he pumped John’s arm for a solid two minutes.

“Whatever’s on tap will do me fine.”

Mike collected the drinks and chatted with John as if everything was normal.

“ _How is your sister?_ ”, and “ _Katie Hart got married. You remember Katie, right? Think she had a thing for you back in the day_ ” and, “ _Bart’s isn’t what it used to be. So many young people, they look younger every term._ ”

As if he wasn’t having a pint with a blind man, for god’s sake. John didn’t know if he should be grateful or annoyed, but he conversed politely. It wasn’t as though he had anywhere else to be, really.

“Excuse me a second, John,” Mike clasped him on the shoulder and slid out of the booth. “Won’t be a bit.”

He headed towards the loo, and John took a long swig of his drink. Mike had yet to ask the pertinent question. He knew it was coming. It had to be coming. In today’s world, why wouldn’t anyone want to know why a RAMC captain would refuse to get his eyes fixed? John rubbed at the wrinkle on his forehead, trying to diffuse some of the headache he was getting from the noise and smell of the pub. He wondered if he looked older than the last time he’d seen himself.

A quiet Scouse accent caught his ear.

“Still don’t understand why we are discussing this here.”

“Because,” hissed a second voice, “Easier to blend in in a crowded pub. Doesn’t draw as much attention as an alleyway or sommat. Alright?”

“Sound,” muttered the first one. “So what’s the deal with this kid?”

John tried not to eavesdrop. Ever since he’d lost his sight, his hearing had been driving him mad. It was as though someone turned the volume up on the whole world. He couldn’t help but overhear things. It wasn’t always so bad, and he could usually ignore it. It did lead to some hard nights listening to the faintly audible punches and cries coming from the alley outside his window; countless infuriating moments of overhearing pitying remarks about himself; and one lip-biting time when he failed completely to ignore some very vocal sex coming through the thin walls of his shitty bedsit.

This time, it was that accent that caught his attention. He strained a little to hear, and yes; he was almost positive it was the same man who’d knocked into him on the sidewalk. He was talking to a man, something about a child, and school being let out the following day.

“Mark will pick him up at the front gate, and then he’ll meet us at the spot.”

“And what if the kid doesn’t come quietly?”

“Not our problem. That’s on Mark. We just gotta sit on the kid until the money shows up, and then get the hell out of London. Easy enough job for a couple hundred thousand quid a piece.”

John frowned. Was he hearing this right? A commotion in the corner over a rugby match drowned out any more conversation, and then Mike was back.

“Sorry I took so long. There was a queue,” he explained.

“Don’t worry,” John said. He frowned again, and then decided that he must have heard it wrong. He must have. “Think I’m gonna call it a night, Mike. It was good to see you again.”

The silence that followed was a bit embarrassing, but John refused to blush.

“You too, John.”


	2. He couldn't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this one up a few hours early. :) And good news! Starting from this chapter, I have a beta and brit picker. Thank you, brianaphora! <3

He couldn’t sleep.

The conversation kept playing over and over in his head. “If the kid doesn’t come quietly…sit on him till the money shows up…get out of London…hundred thousand quid.” It sounded like. Well. It sounded like someone was planning to kidnap a child and hold them for a pretty hefty ransom. Try as he might, John couldn’t come up with an innocent explanation for what he’d heard. There was no context that he could think of that would change the meaning of those few sentences.

He rolled out of bed, using the edge of the nightstand to guide him to the wall. Keeping his fingertips against the smooth paint, he walked around the room to the kitchenette. The kettle was six inches from the edge of the counter top. The sink was a hand’s breadth away from that. Tea in the cabinet right above the sink, spoons in the drawer to his left. Carefully, he smoothed his fingers over the tea bag, checking that he’d actually gotten the damn thing completely unwrapped this time. He’d ingested more tiny bits of paper than he cared to admit before he started remembering to do that. 

He drank it leaning against the kitchen counter, and tried to convince himself that he didn’t care. That it wasn’t his business. But damn it, he couldn’t leave it alone. John was a doctor, he’d taken an oath to help people. He was also a soldier with a protective streak a mile wide. Every particle of his being told him to go save the day.

He snorted, and set his mug into the sink. It was going to be pretty hard for a blind man to save anything. He couldn’t even walk across his own bedsit without using the wall as a guide. To prove it to himself, he stepped away from the counter, and took a step into the room. Another, holding out his arm to steady himself. It’s amazing how much eyesight affects a person’s sense of balance. Another step, and his toe slammed into something hard. 

“Bollocks!” he cursed, stomping down on the toe with his other foot. John reached out; it was his desk chair, rolled farther into the empty space of the room than he’d thought. He moved around it, and immediately tripped over something large and pointy. He landed face-first on the rough carpet, with his legs dangling over the stupid trunk that Harry’d brought over. She had been keeping some of his old things in it after he left. John let out a stream of verbal abuse directed at the trunk, and balled his fist against his nose. That settled it.

He stood and fumbled around for the clothes he’d pulled off earlier. The cane was by the door, and he was smart enough to use the wall to get there this time. He was going to show that stupid fucking trunk that John Hamish Watson was not a man you could just trip in the dark.

The nearest Met station was four blocks south. John turned right out of his building, and tromped through puddles, barely registering the noise of the traffic over the rain. He’d forgotten an umbrella entirely, and his hair was already plastered to his head. Of course. He pulled his collar up and kept going. 

It had to be after midnight, but London didn’t stop living just because of a silly thing like time. Cabs still whisked by, and occasionally another person dodged around him. The rain beat down on the city like a symphony. On bricks, it sounded solid and a bit wild. On asphalt, it was sharp like needles. On metal it was tinny and melodic. Oddly, it cheered John up a little. Places closed down and streets were re-constructed, but London didn’t change, even though he couldn’t see it. It was the same as he remembered: old and new and homey and exotic all at once. 

He passed the final intersection, and stopped under a shop overhang. How many paces down was the station? This was the worst part, the doubt that crept in when John couldn’t recall the geography fast enough. He took a few steps, and tried to imagine the view. He couldn’t; this street had been completely different before he’d left. There used to be a deli right here, and now it was some kind of office complex. He chewed on his lip, and then decided, fuck it. He was pretty sure that it was two more doors down, and if it wasn’t, he could satisfy his conscious that he’d tried. That would have to be good enough.

John stretched out the cane and dodged a puddle, only to slam into a warm body with enough force to knock the wind out of himself. He spun his arms out to stay upright, and only just managed to keep the cane.

“What in the name of-” the body sputtered. It was a man, with a deep voice. John winced at the pause, and shouted over the rain,

“So sorry! Really, really sorry.” He wanted to get away as fast as possible, before the stranger offered to help him. That would be the cherry on top of the Shitty Night cake.

But no such thing happened. Instead, during a second of awkward fumbling to find his bearings, John felt a large hand being wrapped around his arm. Right above his ear, the man said,

“This way,” and pulled him along with surprising strength. John stumbled after him, and was stopped short seven steps later. He heard the sucking woosh of a door being opened, and then he was pulled inside, out of the rain.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The man’s voice was much clearer in here. It was very deep, and smooth, with posh vowels and exact consonants. For some reason, John thought of heavy velvet curtains and dark purple. It took him a moment to concentrate on the actual words.

“Sorry…what?”

The man sighed, and repeated himself with the tone of the much put-upon. John could feel his eyebrows inching into his hairline.

“Afghanistan,” he said. “How did you—”

“Easy. Obvious. Boring,” said the purple velvet voice, “But what’s much more interesting is your eyes. Neurological, obviously. But of what flavour?”

John’s mouth gaped. “Who are you?” He finally blurted out. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” said the man. “Now, what does a blind ex-soldier want with the Met?”


	3. Sherlock Holmes was a god damned hurricane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, wonderful readers! Thank you all for your comments and kudos! I moved to a new house last week, and so haven't had the chance to reply to all of you. Be assured that I will. I love you all so very much. <3

Sherlock Holmes was a god damned hurricane.

He swept John off the street and into the Met station, gave that bizarre introduction, and then bodily pushed John to the desk of a Detective Gregson.

“No doubt Lestrade would be better,” Holmes was saying, “But Gregson’s the only competent one at this station, so she’ll have to do.”

There was a long silence while John tried to understand exactly what was happening. Finally, the detective said,

“So, what’s all this about, Sherlock?”

The man huffed. “I obviously don’t know. Ask him!”

To John, the woman said mildly, “I’m Detective Gregson.”

“Dr. John Watson,” John said, pleased to be back on somewhat familiar ground. Beside him, he heard a whispered, _“Oh, of course. Idiot.”_ He ignored it.

“What can I help you with, Dr. Watson?”

“I…um…” Suddenly, John didn’t know where to start. He could feel the man beside him bouncing on his toes. The energy was making him dizzy. 

“Look, uh, Mr. Holmes—”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, right. Thanks for helping me in here,” John clenched his jaw, determined to sound grateful if it killed him. “I think I can manage now.”

There was a coughing snort from across the desk, and Gregson said,

“You mean, you’re not with him?”

John shook his head, pointing his face back to the woman. He could hardly call it ‘looking’ back at her. “No. He just sort of picked me up off the street out there.” He frowned. “You know, you never did answer my question. How did you know that I was a soldier?”

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the desk. Gregson muttered,

“Oh go on, you big show off.”

Then the man with the velvet voice explained how he’d known all sorts of things about John. The way he stood, the cut of his hair, the confident way he’d moved even when unsure of his surroundings. His skin was still tanned, and there was something John didn’t know. Add all of it to an injury that people simply don’t see outside of violent situations, and Sherlock had easily concluded that John had just returned from service.

“All that was left was the exact country, could have been either. Oh, and exactly what caused the blindness. Obviously not some kind of physical trauma, there’s no scarring on your face at all, and if it was damage to the eyes themselves, there’s nano-surgery to fix that. No, this is obviously something neurological.”

John blurted out, “Wow. That’s amazing.”

Another silence. Damn all these pregnant silences, they made John uncomfortable. 

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked. 

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “Not wrong. Just different.”

John raised his eyebrows in question. Sherlock added,

“Most people just tell me to piss off.”

That made John laugh. He could understand how having your life story read by the cut of your hair could make someone testy, if you caught them on a bad day. But John soaked it up. All the things you could see about a person. If you could see, that is. 

“Meningitis,” he said. He could almost feel the rise in curiosity. It came off the other man in waves. “I was a field surgeon with the RAMC. There was a local who got clipped by some shrapnel after a bomb went off in the road. I was trying to patch him up, but the stuff got him right in the neck. The artery was spraying everywhere, must have gotten into my mouth. I didn’t notice at the time. Woke up a few days later with a raging fever. They managed to stop the bacteria from killing me completely, but the pressure in my skull couldn’t be relieved until after the damage to my sight was done.”

“Marvellous.” Sherlock sounded genuinely enthralled. Gregson coughed again.

“Sherlock,” she said. Her voice carried a warning. The man hummed, and then said,

“Oh…right, of course it’s not marvellous that you lost your sight.” It sounded like a throw-away apology, from someone used to being reminded to apologise. “But nano-medicine has developed so much. It’s rare to see anyone with lasting injuries anymore. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let me run a few experiments?”

John stammered. Experiments? 

“Sherlock, that can wait.” Gregson’s voice was firm. “Dr. Watson, what was it that you needed from me?”

Oh! _Oh god._ John felt the blood drain out of his face as he realised that he’d been standing around chatting while a kidnapping was being planned.

“Earlier this evening, I believe I was witness to a plan to kidnap a child and hold them for ransom.” He said it all in one breath, and then explained more slowly. He told the detective about the pub, and how the accent had caught his attention, and then repeated the conversation as best he could from memory. 

“He very clearly mentioned keeping the child until money was paid. The number ‘hundred thousand’ was thrown around, so I imagine the child comes from a wealthy family.”

“I see,” said Gregson. “And, what child exactly are we talking about?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t say.”

“Ok. What about a family name? Or the name of the school?”

John shook his head. 

“Well, Doctor,” Gregson said after a moment, “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do with this information. You think you overheard a plot to kidnap a child, but you didn’t hear who or where or when. I can’t exactly put every school in London on watch.”

“I didn’t think,” John protested, “I know what I heard.”

“I have no doubt that you heard it,” she said. “But a conversation overheard in a pub, on a game night…people are drinking, and it’s loud. Maybe some context was missing.” She worded her suggestions in a way that didn’t sound as though she were accusing John of over-reacting, but he knew that’s what she was going after. He felt his ears get hot. 

“I know what I heard,” he repeated. “And if you are implying that I was too drunk to understand what I heard.” The sound of chair legs scraping over linoleum interrupted him.

“I’m not implying anything, Dr. Watson. But what do you expect me to do with what you’ve given me?”

John sighed, suddenly tired. She was right. There was nothing to go on.

“I’ll see myself out,” he said humorlessly. Gregson made another apology and then left. John was gathering himself up when a hand touched his shoulder. He flinched away from it, before remembering Sherlock was still next to him.

“Sorry,” he said, “Didn’t expect you to still be there.”

Sherlock replied, “I knew you would be interesting.”


	4. John Watson could be a reckless fool, sometimes.

John Watson could be a reckless fool, sometimes.

When the strange man who had pulled him off the street, deduced his life story, and asked to run experiments on his sight, told him that he could help catch the kidnappers…well, John just said,

“Okay.”

In hindsight, that maybe was not the smartest thing to do.

Sherlock wanted John to take him to the pub where he’d overheard the plot, but it was later than John had thought. Or earlier. Whatever, it was nearly 3 AM, and the pub was closed. So he’d followed Sherlock into a cab. That is to say, he was basically pulled into a cab against his will.

“How exactly are you planning to help?” John asked, when he could finally get a word in. “Are you with the Met or something?”

“Not with them, god no,” Sherlock said. He had on some kind of large wool coat that flared out into the seat, brushing against John’s hand. It was damp, but not at all scratchy. High quality, then. Must have been expensive. It matched Sherlock’s posh accent. “I’m a consulting detective.”

“Consulting detective. What is that?”

“To put it simply: I solve the crimes that the police cannot.” 

“Humble, are we?”

“Humility is a waste of time.”

John laughed. “Well, I suppose there’s no helping an ego when you can look at people and know everything about them.”

Sherlock sounded like he was smiling when he agreed. 

“So. You’ve told me how you figured out I was a soldier, but how did you know I was going to the police station? Wait no,” John bit his lip in concentration. “Let me. It’s probably got something to do with the angle of my arm and the colour of my shoes, right?” This time, Sherlock laughed with him. It was a rumbling chuckle that went straight through John. 

“Not quite,” Sherlock said. “You were muttering under your breath about the station being farther down that you remembered.”

“Oh. Well, that’s anti-climatic.”

Sherlock hummed, another deep, amused sound. John sat back against the seat and thought of about a thousand more questions he had for this man. Before he could open his mouth again, the cab stopped.

“Come on,” Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the street. The rain had stopped.

“Do you always drag people around?”

“When they aren’t moving fast enough, yes.”

“Where are we?”

“Baker Street. This is my flat. I want to know everything you can remember about the conversation. Everything. We’ll have the time to go over it   
while we wait for the pub to open.”

From the corner where they’d gotten out of the cab, it was 23 paces to Sherlock’s door. John counted out of forced habit.

“You don’t like riding in cabs. It makes you feel lost because you can’t be exactly sure of how far you travelled.” Sherlock’s voice was from above John’s head, and just a little ahead. John listened to their footsteps for a second, and then replied,

“You don’t like riding in cabs because there’s not enough leg room. You probably have to hunch over, too.”

“You got that from listening to the length of my steps, didn’t you?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” John teased. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know.” His nose scrunched up when they reached the steps to Sherlock’s door.

“Speedy’s,” Sherlock said. “It pretends to be a delicatessen.”

The smell was overpowering garlic, with onion-y sharpness that could knock you off your feet. John felt his eyes water.

“Well, now I know how you can afford to live in a flat in central London.”

“Indeed. Come in.”

There were 17 stairs leading up to Sherlock’s flat, and then a narrow entryway. Sherlock was gone the instant they stepped through the door; John could hear him pacing several feet away. He reached out and brushed his fingertips against the wall, until he met damp wool. Sherlock’s coat. Reaching higher, he found hooks and took off his own useless jacket. The thin striped jumper he’d thrown on that night was plastered to him, but thankfully not dripping. 

“Come on, come on!” Sherlock shouted. John raised his eyebrows.

“Bit hard when I can’t tell where you’ve gone,” he muttered. But he swung his cane out in front of his feet and aimed for the thumping sound somewhere to his left. 

There was furniture fucking _everywhere_. He couldn’t walk two steps without having to navigate around a small table or a chair or —what was that, a record player? Finally the cane managed to tap a soft upholstered chair, and Sherlock said, 

“Sit.”

John did, too grateful to care about the barked order. The flat still smelled faintly of Speedy’s, but there was also the astringent odour of hospitals that John was too familiar with. The air in the flat felt dark, if that were possible. Heavy. Like there hadn’t been any fresh air in the place in a long time. The chair under his palms was definitely a bit dusty.

“You live alone?” John somehow didn’t think Sherlock was the type for small talk. He was right.

“Not important. Tell me what you heard, all of it, starting with when you bumped the man on the street.”

John frowned. Had he told Gregson about bumping the man?

“No, but _obviously_ you did. Continue.” 

John just shook his head at the mind reading.

“Alright. Yes, I did bump him. Or he bumped me, actually. He was in a hurry, I didn’t hear his footsteps in time. He ran into me from behind, said sorry, and then took off.”

“Is that all?”

“Well…um, he handed me the cane. I dropped it, and he picked it up for me.”

“In the pub, besides the accent and the voice, was there anything else that made you recognise the man?”

“Like what?”

“Smell? The feel of his jacket?”

“I wasn’t that close.”

“How far away were you sitting?”

“I’d guess—”

“Don’t guess,” Sherlock interrupted. “How far away?”

John clenched his jaw. “It’s not like I can give you an exact number. I couldn’t tell the distance with just my ears.”

“Nonsense!” Sherlock barked, and the pacing started up again. “I could stand outside with my eyes closed and tell you exactly how far away a cab was by listening to the way the sound changes as it moves. And I’ve not had to develop my hearing out of necessity as you have. You do know, but you are afraid to commit to a number because you think I won’t believe you. People have been dismissing you and your observations because of your lack of a single sense, and so you’ve learnt to keep them to yourself. You have four other perfectly good senses, and I know you know how to use them. Think, John!”

John was shocked into stammering out, “Roughly a yard. We couldn’t have been more than two tables away from each other. The voice came from my right, and I was one table from the left of the bar, so he would have been sitting at the table in the dead centre of the room, away from the rugby crowd over by the telly.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock sounded like a cat purring.

“Now what?” John asked, after a long moment of silence. There was no answer.

“Hello?” He called. “Sherlock?”

“Be quiet, I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

When there was no answer, John sighed and stood. “Where is the kitchen?”

“Behind you.”

“Is there tea?” he asked. Might as well make himself useful. If he could do it in his stupid bedsit, he could do it here. It would just take more…exploration than normal.

“Somewhere.” Sherlock hummed. “But be careful of sealed jars. Make sure you smell anything before ingesting it.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, the nanomedicine really starts to pick up, and I hope you'll all be satisfied with the reasons for John's blindness. 
> 
> Also, I'd like to make a note that I'll be repeating next week: I am taking some liberties with what a visually impaired individual can reasonably do in this story. John's a BAMF, as we all know, and I didn't want to stop him from being so. I am, myself, a visually impaired person, so some of these are experiences I am drawing from my own life. Could a completely blind person go into a stranger's house and make tea, having never seen their kitchen before? I talked to a friend of mine who is, and she told me that with ample time to explore, smell things, open canisters, the answer is yes. Should a person do this in Sherlock's kitchen? *shudder* Probably not. But we all know John's not exactly the soul of caution, so what the hell.


	5. The bartender was not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised more nanomed would start showing up, but I couldn't resist sneaking in one more chapter featuring a well-loved canon moment. I hope you'll forgive me my indulgence! ^.^

The bartender was not impressed.

The minute the pub opened, Sherlock dragged John through the doors, and began to crawl over everything. The bartender gave them five minutes. 

“Don’t want you scaring away my paying customers,” he said. John shrugged an apology, but when no acknowledgement came, he couldn’t even be sure the gesture had been noticed. 

Sherlock steered him to a table.

“Where were you sitting?”

“Here,” John sat. “The window was behind me.”

Sherlock’s long steps made their way to a distance a few yards away.

“And this was where you heard the man?”

John caught his lip in his teeth and thought.

“It was louder. The telly was on, the crowd was yelling.”

Sherlock sighed, a whisper of frustration.

“If you are going to doubt yourself every step of the way, there will be no solving this case,” he snapped. John bristled.

“It’s not exactly going to be scientific, is it? The conditions are different. It was raining, it was loud, I wasn’t as tired.”

“None of which should have any effect on your memory!”

“What the hell does that even mean? I’m telling you, I can’t just give you an exact pin point of his location besides what I already told you. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s one skill that generally requires sight! Or are you so bloody wrapped up in your own genius that you haven’t picked up on the fact that that’s a bit of a sore subject for me?”

John panted angry breaths through his nose, and clenched his fist against the table. The pub was silent, and he realized that he’d just been shouting at a man - a man who was trying to help him catch a kidnapper - in public. He felt his face flushing. He could no longer hear the pacing of the bartender.

“Sherlock?”

The detective shifted his weight, moving loud enough for John to hear, but otherwise said nothing. Suddenly, John wondered just how old the man was. He spoke with confidence at his flat, but allowed himself to be scolded like a child by Gregson. He clearly didn’t know what to say in the face of John’s anger.

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly. He smiled, and tried to make his voice light. “Got a lot of pent up frustration, I suppose.” The words came out bitter.

Sherlock moved again, and then the telly was switching on.

“That ought to help some,” Sherlock said. Over the sounds of a daytime soap, he continued:

“Here?”

“Yes?” John nodded. “Yes. It was there.”

“From this seat, the alleged kidnapper would have had a perfect view of all exits, even on a crowded night,” Sherlock mused. John heard him jump up, the chair scraping the floor, and then he was pressing his side right against John’s. Warmth flooded through the thick wool into John’s ribs. He could smell cigarette smoke and hospital-grade cleaner; but also something deeper. Something like worn leather and chai tea.

“Um,” he said.

“Shh. I’m trying to get an idea of…Oh. Oh, yes.”

“Sorry?”

But Sherlock didn’t answer. He was gone again, spinning away into the room while John sat there wondering what the hell was going on.

After a few moments, John called out again. There was still no answer, and he didn’t hear any movement over the telly either.

_“Ricardo,”_ the woman on the telly said, _“Do you know what you’re doing?”_

“No,” John answered her. “No I do not.”

“Your friend’s gone, mate.” The bartender was back.

“Excuse me?”

“Tall, pale fellow you were just with? Left a minute ago out the back.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” John jumped up, and found the bar. Running his fingers along the edge, he moved swiftly towards the back of the building. The air got cooler back here, closer to an open door, and there it was. John pushed it open, and stepped outside. 

“Hello?” he called. His voice echoed. From his left, about a yard, came the sound of traffic. On his right was a dead, muffled area. An alley, then. 

“Sherlock?”

John took a step, and his hand hit cool, wet metal. Trash bin. 

“Did that wanker seriously just run off and leave me in a bloody pub?” John kicked the bin, and swore at the resulting clang. He stood there for a moment, and then gave it up for a lost cause. What kind of man goes around picking blind old army doctors off the street anyway?

He turned towards the street.

“If by ‘that wanker’ you meant me, no he did not.” Sherlock’s posh voice floated over his head. John looked up.

“You could have answered me,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing yet. But I’ve found a lead. Follow me.”

“A lead?” Adrenaline rushed through John’s veins. God, it felt good. He caught up with Sherlock, and shoved his cold hands into his pockets. 

“What sort of lead?”

“All in good time, John.”

Sherlock’s body was a warm line next to his own, that John could feel even though they didn’t touch. He doubled his pace to keep up with long legs, and dodged any pedestrians that Sherlock pushed through. A lead! 

“You really found something?”

“Where are we?”

“What?”

Sherlock’s voice took on a note of pleading.

“John, I got wrapped up in my thinking. I wasn’t paying attention at all, and I don’t see any cabs. Where are we?”

John reached out, found Sherlock’s arm, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The man was thin, but not bony. John squeezed again, and said,

“Don’t worry. We’re only a couple of blocks away from my place, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“Smell that?” John raised his nose to the air. “Smells like burnt potatoes? There’s a chip place right around here that uses a particular oil. Stinks to high heaven, but the chips taste amazing. Also, we just passed a little electronics store that always plays the same Prince song on loop in the mornings. Hard to ignore.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock’s voice had lost it’s vulnerable note, and he tugged his arm where John was still holding him. “Come along. Just a few more tests.”

“Tests?”

John stepped back, and waved his hands.

“Wait, what?”

“Tests, John. On you. Obviously.”

“Hang on, so…you’re not lost?”

Sherlock’s sigh sounded like it was drawn up from the depths of a tortured soul.

“No. I am not. Nor did I leave the alley because of some mysterious lead. I wanted to see how your sense of geography held up when your mind  
was distracted. Interestingly, your brain seems to process sensory details, and apply them to your personal map, on a subconscious level.”

“Hang on, Sherlock. What about the kidnapping?”

“Hm? Oh, right. Nothing. Not even I can track down a criminal based on an overheard conversation. The pub was a dead end.”

“So. What next?”

John shivered in his jacket. He was still wearing the clothes that had dried on him from the previous evening. He really needed a good hot shower, and some decent food, and a change of clothes. But he’d put all of that aside because this man said he could help.

“What’s next is that I suggest we go to Bart’s.”

“How will we find anything about a kidnapping at Bart’s?” John asked, stupidly.

“Still hung up on that?” Sherlock pulled him back into the foot traffic. “We’re done with that. There is no case, not with what you’ve given me.  
Now, at Bart’s, if I could convince Molly to get me access to the scanners, I’d like to have a look at your brain.”

John stopped.

“You’re not going to help me.”

Sherlock continued as though he hadn’t spoken. 

“Maybe we could set up a room, like an obstacle course, and have you go through it while attached. I’ve always been interested in how swelling affects the…”

“Right. It’s been fun.”

And with that, John turned and headed home.

He only made it a few feet before he realised that he’d be going nowhere. He’d left his cane in the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, they won't be leaving the poor child to be kidnapped! Both John and Sherlock will get what they want. :) 
> 
> This is turning into a much longer project than I anticipated. What is posted is originally what I had as the "halfway" point; but what is *written* is much, much longer. According to what is now written, this is roughly the quarter mark.


	6. Sherlock's phone wouldn't stop ringing.

Sherlock’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

“ _How sweet…to be an idiot,_ ” Neil Innes sang. The noise was gone a moment later, and Sherlock’s hand grabbed John’s arm.

“Was that your phone?” John asked. It went off again.

_“How sweet…to be an idiot.”_

“It’s the Met,” Sherlock explained. He silenced it again, and then cleared his throat. John cut him off.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t particularly care for being treated less than human just because of my eyes. I get it, it’s unusual. And you are clearly something of a genius. Judging by all those experiments I disturbed in your kitchen, you like science.”

“ _Brilliant_ deduction.”

John continued: “I got a little caught up. No one’s really noticed me at all since I came back home.”

He blushed when he realised what that sounded like.

“Not like that,” he blurted out. “I mean, what I meant was, people have kept their distance. So when you said you’d help me, and you didn’t tiptoe around the blindness like it was something to be avoided, I just.” He cleared his throat, and hung his head. Mumbling at the ground, he finished lamely,  
“Just nice to be out doing something important again.”

And there it was: John Fucking Watson. One time doctor and solider, ladies’ man across three separate continents, and a damn fine dancer to boot. Now, pathetic man in need of a cane who couldn’t even get his own shopping.

The silence grew between them like a living thing. It made John’s neck sweat. Sherlock was still holding his arm, his long fingers wrapped around the fabric and muscle. He had such very long fingers. John cleared his throat, and jostled his arm. Sherlock didn’t take the hint. John got the feeling that he was being studied, and he wondered what he was that he was showing on his face.

“John,” Sherlock started, but he was cut off again by the phone:

_“How sweet…to be an idiot.”_

“WHAT?” He exploded, and then silence. “Oh.”

The deep noise of surprise made John blush even harder. What had the bartender said? Tall and pale? He tried to picture it in his mind: long and lean, like his fingers. Skin that would show every blush. And with that purple-velvet voice, something about him seemed dark. John mentally added dark hair to his picture, and dark eyes…the kind of eyes that would see right through a person.

“Seems you’ve gotten your case after all, John.” Sherlock’s voice broke through his daydream, and he almost died of mortification. Was he really that desperate? He arranged his face in what he hoped was an unreadable expression, and said,

“What’s that?”

“The Met, John. They’ve gotten a ransom demand.”

“Really? Are you sure it’s the same child?”

“Gregson asked for you specifically. They must have reason to suspect so.”

Sherlock gave his arm another tug, and they were moving again; this time, back towards the Met station where this had all started.

“But what do you think?”

Another pause.

“You say that as though you are really interested in the answer,” Sherlock mused. John furrowed his brow.

“Of course I am; why would I ask otherwise?”

“Not like you want the answer because it will benefit you to have the information, but because you are geniunely curious what _I_ think.”

“Um…yes?”

“Interesting.”

John tried to keep up, but the walk was crowded with people leaving lunch, heading back to work.

“Hang on, Sherlock,” he called, and then someone bumped him.

“Watch it!”

“Sorry,” John said, and took another couple of steps.

Sherlock was at his side again, threading his hand through the crook of John’s elbow.

“Come on,” he said. They turned the corner to a busier street, and John could no longer hear Sherlock at all. Just _grumbling-squealing-whirring_ tyres, and _talking-laughing-shouting_ people and _ringing-singing_ phones; a dog barking, a door pushing open and making the air long and hollow. A child darted past with staccato feet, and a mother with a Scottish lilt called,

“Sophia, don’t you dare!” Plodding steps backwards.

A cab honked a horn right next to them, and John jumped.

“It overwhelms you, doesn’t it?” said a grounding voice next to his ear.

John took a breath, and concentrated on the feel of Sherlock’s hand in his arm. He didn’t bother answering the question; he was sure it was written all over his face. Instead, he thought about the fact that the man hadn’t tried to grab John’s elbow to pull him along like a child. He hadn’t once opened a door or pointed out an obstacle, and he hadn’t tried to get in the way of John’s making tea in an unfamiliar kitchen. He also hadn’t pointed out that Gregson asking for John was merely a courtesy.

“Most of what I know about people is based on sight,” Sherlock said as they walked. He kept his head bent low to John’s ear. “I can look at a person, and pick out details that someone else might have missed. The scuff on shoes that are otherwise well-maintained. A fraying hem. Nicotene stains on their fingers. Bad teeth, but expensive eye-wear. All of those things tell me what I need to know to make educated guesses about their lives.”

“Sounds like quite a trick,” John said.

“It’s limited. It hinges on a single sense. Stupid, really. What if I were blindfolded? What if I’d been taken somewhere completely dark? What if my eyes had been injured in a fight?”

“Get into rough situations a lot, do you?”

“Sometimes. That’s not the point. I need to be better. Sound, smell, touch, taste, those things are important as well.”

John chuckled.

“Can’t say as I’ve gone around tasting things, mate.”

“But a few minutes ago, you accurately identified where we were based on a smell, and your recollection of taste, did you not?”

“I suppose.”

A man shouted from a doorway, and John winced.

"Tell me, John, what was it about that man that made you flinch, just now?"

John frowned.

"I'm not entirely sure. His voice was unexpected. Startled me."

"You are not a man easily startled, surely. Being in the battlefield must have taught you to curb those instincts."

"I guess I just...didn't like the way he sounded? He had a bad voice. I dunno, Sherlock."

"He's had tissue engineering work done on his vocal cords. The growth factors weren't simulated by an expert however. His voice is completely the wrong timbre for a man of his stature and chest depth. Do you understand _now_? I only know this about him because I am able to see his stature."

"Okay, but how do you propose to deduce something like that blind? I couldn't have told you that."

"Because you weren't thinking along those lines. You are a doctor, but you are not a nanosurgeon, and you've not had any nanoimplants yourself. You were thinking from your own standpoint as a man overwhelmed by the noise of London on a busy afternoon. If you had my extensive knowledge on the subject, you would have been able to apply it, of course."

"Oh, _of course_ ," John said through clenched teeth. "Excuse me for not having your _extensive knowledge_."

"You are excused," Sherlock said. John huffed out a breath, and wondered why on Earth he was still following this madman around.

Sherlock bounced on his toes next to John while they waited to cross, and John reminded himself that they could potentially do a lot of good before this day was over.

“It’s good if they asked for ransom, right?” John asked, when they reached the station. “Means they want to work with the parents?”

“Or it could mean that the kidnapper is a sadistic madman who likes to torture his victims with false hope,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, there’s an optimistic thought.”

“Optimism is for priests and fools, John.”

Sherlock released John’s arm, and said,

“After you.”

John raised an eyebrow at him.

“Did you really just make that joke?”

“I believe I did, yes.”

John stood there with his lip threatening to quiver until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He laughed, and immediately cleared his throat. Sherlock was coughing to cover a giggle, and John could feel his mouth breaking into a grin. Giving Sherlock a shove, he said,

“We can’t laugh when we’re about to go talk about a kidnapping. Get on with it.”

Together, they headed to Gregson’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry that nothing much happened here; HOWEVER, I plan to upload the next chapter early (either tmro or the day after) to make up for it. :)


	7. Tabitha Gregson was really, really over the attitude of a certain consulting detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't get that extra chapter up last weekend; we had a child-related emergency. This chapter is a bit longer, and un-beta'd, for the same reason. I'm getting it together for next week, though. :) Also, next week, I will be able to tell you exactly how many more chapters there are.  
> Enjoy!

Tabitha Gregson was really, _really_ over the attitude of a certain consulting detective.

It was evident in the way she drummed a finger against her desk, and sighed for the umpteenth time.

“Again, Sherlock, this isn’t DI Lestrade’s division. So no, you can’t work with him on this case, regardless of how idiotic you think the rest of us. I’d like to know what’s so damned special about Lestrade anyway.”

“I didn’t say he was special,” Sherlock protested, “Just that he is marginally less stupid than the rest of you.”

“Enough,” Gregson snapped. “You want to help on this case or not?”

“Please.” John stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against the wall. Exhaustion was starting to catch up with him, and he strained to put a little more conviction in his voice. “You said the parents are here?”

There was silence, and then Sherlock snorted.

“He can’t see you nodding.”

When Detective Gregson spoke again, she sounded embarrassed, and a little angry.

“Sorry. Yes, they are here, Doctor Watson. But I’m not sure what they’d be able to tell you. We’ve already questioned them, and my techs are analyzing the ransom message as we speak.”

“What makes you think it’s the same kidnapping as the one I reported?”

“Admittedly they are very shoddy connections, but the child comes from a well-to-do family, and was taken from a school entrance.” Gregson’s chair clunked over the floor, and then she _hmmmed._ Paper shuffled. 

“Aiden Mattheson,” she said, “Age nine. The school is a very upscale private institution, with check-out procedures. The family’s usual driver signed Aiden out, and the school secretary confirmed that it was indeed the driver, William Embry, whom she saw. From there, nothing. The driver, car, and child are all gone.”

“Mark was the name I heard in the pub,” John said. “The man said that ‘Mark’ would pick the kid up outside school.”

More papers shuffled, and then Gregson said,

“Embry’s middle initial is ‘M’. Sherlock, why do you have your eyes closed?”

“Just testing a theory. There is something you aren’t telling us.”

Sherlock was pacing his corner of the tiny office, his shoes the staccato tap of a too-short stride.

“Normally I’d be able to tell this by the way you avoided eye-contact, or your very telling habit of pursing your lips. Never play poker, Gregson. But with my eyes closed, I could still detect the difference in your voice. When reporting what you knew to be fact, you sounded as you usually do; however, when you were explaining the connections between John’s story and this case, you sounded guarded and hesitant. Interesting, I’d never noted the changes in your voice before. So. What is it that you aren’t telling us?”

Gregson groaned.

“Because you weren’t already enough of a menace?”

John held up his hands, although he wasn’t entirely certain he was even a part of this conversation. Just in case, he didn’t want the Detective thinking he was the one who’d taught Sherlock this new trick. Gregson’s chair scraped the floor. John pictured her, with lips comically pursed, and eyes roaming around the room. 

“The parents are this way. Sherlock, I’m warning you. One word to upset them, and you’re gone, Lestrade be hanged. These people just had their child kidnapped.”

John followed, keeping his knuckles thrust forward, down by his hip, as subtly as he could. The walk was made more awkward by the fact that behind him, he could hear Sherlock taking short, hesitant steps. _Walking with his eyes closed?_

“Sherlock, you can stop. I’ll still work with you,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s help these people, and get some sleep, and then I’ll go with you to Bart’s.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said. His steps lengthened, but he stayed behind John.

“You’re not going to stop with the closed eyes thing, are you?”

“Nope.” The “p” popped out of his mouth right above John’s ear, and he flinched away. Sherlock chuckled, and his hand touched John’s shoulder soothingly. 

John smiled. And then he realised that they’d all stopped moving.

“Something wrong?” he asked. Sherlock sighed.

“It’s not like you’ve never seen me act human before, Gregson. Stop staring. Case to solve, remember?”

“I’ll be damned,” Gregson muttered. A door opened, and John missed the rest of what she said. But by the way Sherlock’s hand dropped from his shoulder, he imagined the other man had heard it all too well. 

Two sets of footsteps approached: one small and sharp and _too-tappy_ ; the other firm and a little louder than usual. As soon as they got near, John’s nose was assaulted with an overwhelming stench of something very floral. He hoped his face hadn’t shown his revulsion as he took a minscule step backwards. Gregson introduced them as,

“Charles Mattheson and Anna.”

John opened his mouth to reply, but immediately coughed on perfume, and closed it again. He shook hands and cleared his throat. His eyes were watering. _Shit_ , but it was hard to concentrate on anything anyone was saying.

Sherlock’s voice, accusing and harsh, broke through the fog.

“You are not the child’s mother.”

There was a silence, and John was tempted to nudge the man, possibly prod him into filling it, but then the man answered.

“My wife is dead. She died several months ago. Anna is our nanny, a valuable part of the family.” His voice was higher than John expected, but firm; someone used to being listened to. 

“I see,” Sherlock said. “Did you have any reason to suspect that your driver would bring harm to your son?”

“None at all. I’ve already told the police that I do a very vigorous background check for all my employees.”

“How did your wife die?”

“Sherlock,” Gregson said. Her voice carried a warning growl. Sherlock repeated the question.

“How did your wife die, Mr. Mattheson?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant…”

John sneezed, twice, and then took another step back. The lights overhead were letting off a low buzzing sound; his jaw ached from grinding his teeth against the perfume; Sherlock’s body was suddenly too close, too warm. He took a small breath, and focussed on the low sound of Sherlock saying,

“It is relevant, sir, because your wife’s death was recent, and should it have been something violent, it is natural that the police would want to look into a possible connection, if they were smart enough to see that there even was one in the first place.”

“That is quite enough, Sherlock! We asked him about his late wife already. It was deemed not relevant. Move on.”

“Why is this man here, Detective?”

Sherlock spoke over her answer,

“Who deemed it irrelevant? You? One of your barely literate minions?”

“It was _suicide_ , you arse! My wife took her own life, are you happy? Detective, I do not want this man anywhere near me, or my family.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Mattheson.”

Gregson moved, and Sherlock was jerked away from John’s side. He backed into the wall, trying to get his bearings, and pointed his face back towards the couple. The woman with the perfume had started to cry.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I think he’s trying to help.”

“Funny way he has of showing it,” Mattheson answered.

John looked back down the hall, where Sherlock and Gregson had stomped off together.

“Would you mind if I stayed with you for a moment?” John asked. Before he could say anymore, his phone went off in his pocket. “Excuse me.”

He ran his thumb over the volume, silencing it. The tone was just a time alert, something Harry had set up for him. It went off every 12 hours, just to keep him aware of some kind of a schedule. It was nearing 24 since he’d last ate, longer since he’d slept. He scrubbed his face, and searched himself for the bedside manner he used to wield as good as any weapon.

“Tell me about your son,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’m a doctor. Before I went to the Army, I was considering pediatrics. Always had a soft spot for children. Your boy, Aiden?”

This time, the nanny spoke up:

“Yes,” she said. Her voice had a slightly exotic accent, something John couldn’t place. “Aiden. He’s a sweet boy. Very sensitive, and so creative.”

The man snorted.

“That’s her way of saying my boy is in need of some rugby to straighten him out. His mother encouraged his _creativity_.”

“I played rugby,” John offered.

“Musta been a shit player with those eyes.”

John stood there, blinking, until he was sure that he’d heard the man correctly.

“I was injured during my time in Afghanistan,” he said carefully. “I wasn’t always blind.”

“Thought you said you were a doctor? They’ve got ways to fix that, or didn’t you know?”

John clenched his teeth.

“I respect the fact that you are scared for your son, Sir, so I’m going to let that go.”

“Oh, are you now? What would you do about it, anyway? Going to ‘stare me down’, are you?”

The nanny made a choked noise, and stepped away. John felt fire curl up in his stomach and die there. He felt his face melting into blank lines, and his hands relaxed at his sides. He could hear Mattheson breathing, roughly four feet to his left, and slightly forward. John’s fist could reach from here, if it needed to. The sound of Mattheson’s voice and the length of his earlier strides told John he was near the same height. His breathing quickened, and in that little sound, John heard fear. 

A hand came down on John’s shoulder. Sherlock.

“I’ve got something else to look into,” he said. “Want to come?”

“God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me over the last 7 weeks. I know it's a bit frustrating when fics move slowly, and all I can say is again, thank you. :) If I could get paid to write fanfic, I would do only this.
> 
> If you are interested at all in the 00Q (Skyfall) fandom, or you just want a nice smut interlude, I also uploaded this today: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1592297  
> Mmmmm, smut.


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